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At Chrift'nings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart:
Wilh'd Women might have Children fast,
And thought whose Sow had farrow'd last:
Against Dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Rigbt Divine :
Found his Head fill'd with many a System,
But Classick Authors, che neler mist !em.

Thus having furbish'd up a Parson,
Dame Baucis next they playłd their Farce on:
Instead of home spun Coifs were seen
Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen :
Her Petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black Sattin flounc'd with Lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her Grogram Gown.
Philemon was in great Surprize,
And hardly could believe his Eyes:
Amaz'd to see her look so prim:
And she admir'd as much at him.

Thus, happy in their Change of Life,
Were several Years the Man and Wife:
When on a Day, which prov?d their last,
Discoursing o'er old Stories past;
They went by chance, ainidst their Taik,
In the Church-yard, to fetch a Walk:
When Baucis hastily cry'd out,
My Dear, I see your Forehead (prout !

Sprout, Sprout, quoth the Man, what's this

you

tell us ? I hope you don't believe me jealous : But yet, methinks, I feel it true ; And really yours-is. budding too Nay-now I cannot ftir

my It feels as if 'cwere taking Root.

Foot;

DescRIPTION would but tire

my

Muse : In short, they both were turn'd to Yews.

Old Goodman Dobson, of the Green,
Remembers he the Trees hath feen:
He'll talk of them from Noon to Night,
And
goes

with Folks to thew the Sight;
On Sundays, after Evening Prayer,
He gathers all the Parish there ;
Points out the Place of either Yew :
Here Baucis, there,Philemon grew :
"Till once, a Parson of our Town,
To mend his Barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'cis hard to be believ'd,
How much the other Tree was griev'd:
Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted ;
So, the next, Parson stubb'd and burat it.

VANBRUG's VANBRUG's

HOUSE:

Built from the Ruins of Whitehall that was.

Burnt,

Written in the Year 1708.

I

N Times of Old, when Time was young,

And Poets their own Verses sung,
A Verse could draw a Stone or Beam,
That now would over-load a Team;
Lead 'em a Dance of many a Mile,
Then rear 'em to a goodly Pile.
Each Number had its diff'rent Pow'r;
Heroic Strains could build a Tow'r;
Sonnet, or Elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a Houfe about two Stories;
A Lyric Ode would Nate ; a Catch
Would tile ; an Epigram would thatch.

But to their own, or Landlord's Coft,
Now Poets feel this Art is loft ;
Not one of all our tuneful Throng
Can raise a Lodging for a Song.
For Jove consider'd well the Case ;
Observ'd they grew a num'rous Race,
And should they build as fast as wrike
Twould ruin Undertakers quite,

This Evil therefore to prevent,
He wisely chang'd their Element :
On Earth, the God of Wealth was made
Sole Patron of the Building Trade ;
Leaving the Wits the spacious Air,
With Licence to build Castles there :
And 'tis conceiv'd their old Pretence
To lodge in Garrets, comes from thence.

PREMISING thus in modern Way The better Half we have to fay; Sing Muse, the House of Poet Van In higher Strains than we began,

VAN, (for 'cis fit the Reader know it,)
Is both a Herald and a Poet;
No Wonder then, if nicely skill'd
In both Capacities to build.
As Herald, he can in a Day
Repair a House gone to Decay ;
Or, by Atchievement, Arms, Device,
Erect a new one in a Trice.
And, as a Poet, he hath Skill
To build in Speculation still,
Great Jove! he cry'd, the Art restore,
To build by Verse, as heretofore ;
And make my Muse the Architect ;
What Palaces shall we erect!
No longer shall forsaken Thames
Lament his old Whiteball in Flames :

· A

A Pile shall from its Alhes rise,
Fit to invade, or prop the skies.

JOVE smild, and like a gentle God,
Consenting with his usual Nod:
Told Van he knew his Talent best,
And left the Choice to his own Breast.
So Van resolu'd to write a Farce;
But well perceiving Wit was scarce,
With Cunning that Defect supplies;
Takes a French Play as lawful Prize;
Steals thence his Plot, and ev'ry Joke,
Not once suspecting Jove would smoke ;
And (like a Wag) sat down to write,
Would whisper to himself; A Bitk.
Then from this motly mingled Style
Proceeded to erect his Pile.
So Men of old, to gain Renown, did
Build Babel with their Tongues confounded.
Jove saw the Cheat, but thought it best
To turn the Matter to a Jeft:
Down from Olympus' Top he sides,
Laughing as if he'd burst his Sides;
Ay, thought the God, are these

your

Tricks?
Why then old Plays deserve old Bricks ;
And since you're sparing of your Stuff,
Your Building shall be small enough.
He spoke, and grudging lent his Aid:
Th' experienc'd Bricks that knew their Trade,
(As being Bricks at second Hand,)
Now move, and now in Order ftand.

THE

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